


Nothing Is Pointless

by squiddtastic



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Broken Bones, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt takes care of Iorveth and Iorveth is just tired all the time, Hopeful Ending, Injury, M/M, but no major spoilers for the witcher 3, just some classic TLC, some witcher 2 iorveth path spoilers, takes place late or post witcher 3 base game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddtastic/pseuds/squiddtastic
Summary: Iorveth finds himself in an unfortunate situation when his unit is ambushed in a forest in Velen. Luckily a certain witcher happens upon him and is more than willing to help out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth, Iorveth/Saskia (Mentioned VERY briefly)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 149





	Nothing Is Pointless

**Author's Note:**

> In which Iorveth has always tried to deny his feelings but Geralt indirectly calls him out on his shit. Enjoy! (See also: what if Iorveth was in The Witcher 3 and him and Geralt were also secretly in love) (I borrowed some ideas from the unreleased Iorveth portion of tw3 :eyes:)
> 
> Warning! The first little bit of this story describes gross injuries in detail! But only the first bit, nothing is detailed later on!!

Damn it all. _Damn it all_.

Iorveth swore to himself as he desperately held his arm close to his chest. He was currently slumped against a branch in a large tree he had managed to climb. At the time of his ascent, his body was so full of adrenaline and a dire need to reach safety that the pain was the last thing on his mind. Now that he was safe — at least, as safe as possible for now — the pain hit him like a ball of fire.

His head was pounding as he ground his teeth together, his arm throbbing and reminding him of the battle that had just taken place, if one could even call that pathetic quarrel a battle. He glanced at the forest floor beneath him, taking in the sight of dead Scoia'tael and human corpses scattered below in a mess of blood and gore. The sight was so familiar to him, yet he still felt a searing rage and he swore once again under his breath. He felt humiliated. He clenched his eye shut for a moment, hitting his head against the tree with a thump before going back to treating his wound.

Though, of course, there wasn't much he could do. Upon closer examination it was clear that his arm was broken, there was no doubt about it. The hard part would be setting it back in place, and finding something to keep it back in place. At that moment, all Iorveth had on him was his clothing — the attack was not planned, and he didn't have the time to grab his supplies before climbing the tree. He also didn't exactly feel comfortable leaving the safety of the tree just yet, it hadn't been nearly long enough.

" _Bloede dh'oine_ ," Iorveth cursed silently. He quickly reached behind his head with his good arm, untying the stained bandanna and setting it down on his lap. He reached beside him and snapped off a sturdy looking tree branch. As best as he could, he began wrapping his bandanna around said branch before firmly gripping it between his teeth.

Without giving him a chance to think, Iorveth expertly snapped his arm back into place. His eye was sewn shut and he let out a pained grunt, hunching over involuntarily. Once that was done, Iorveth removed the branch from his mouth, forcing his breath to stay slow and deep as he tried to stabilize the pain. Making do with what he had, he placed the branch against his arm and tied his bandanna around them as a makeshift cast.

It would have to do for now.

Iorveth was used to pain, of course. But now he was in a bit of a predicament. He was in a tree, in unsafe territory, alone. The Scoia'tael in his unit were either dead, almost dead, or nowhere near him. The Scoia'tael were ruthless fighters, but they weren't suicidal. They wouldn't allow themselves to be slaughtered needlessly by humans if there was a way to escape. 

Later, they would get revenge.

Now, however, Iorveth was alone. Alone and nearly helpless, his right arm completely useless in terms of both using a bow or a sword. He kept a sword held tightly in his left hand regardless, grip firm and unyielding as he scanned the area below him. He'd be damned if anyone were to sneak up on him. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings.

He didn't know how long he would have to sit there. He had to be certain nobody else was going to show up before he attempted to escape. If he was spotted in his condition he would have no means of fighting back effectively and he would quickly be killed; or perhaps captured and tortured first, which was more likely. And he would not give them that satisfaction.

It was late, and it was dark, and Iorveth was inevitably becoming exhausted. Being ambushed unexpectedly, suddenly fighting for his life and the life of his unit, and breaking an arm sapped the energy out of him and he could feel it now that the last of the adrenaline was wearing off. His eyelids were starting to droop involuntarily, his head nodding forward with a snap every so often as he began to drift off. He leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes, ears perked and listening as intently as possible for any signs of life.

But eventually, Iorveth dozed off.

\---

Iorveth's eye snapped open as he heard the soft and careful footsteps of someone walking below. It was still dark, but less so. The sun was just peaking across the horizon and beginning to light up the forest around him. He didn't dare move, only trusting himself to open his eyes and attempt to see the forest floor below from where he was resting. He tried to even his breathing to be as silent as possible.

Evidently, however, this didn't matter.

"Who's there?" The man below called out. "I can hear you breathing."

That voice.

It sounded strangely familiar.

Rough and gravely, deep and expressionless. It couldn't be... Here? In Velen? How could that be possible? Iorveth, without moving a muscle, glanced down as much as he could to get a glimpse of the familiar man. He caught sight of a white head of hair.

So it was...

"...Geralt?"

The witcher froze in place, evidently just as startled as Iorveth was. Geralt's gaze traveled to Iorveth's hiding spot and their eyes met, Iorveth not taking care to hide as much as he was previously. Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"Iorveth?"

"What are you doing here?" Iorveth inquired suspiciously. His first instinct was to be relieved that the witcher was here, as they were not, last they met, on hostile terms. However, Iorveth also knew that if Geralt was here for any reason other than a chat, Iorveth would by no means be able to defend himself.

"On a contract," Geralt grunted simply. "What are you doing here? You can come down now."

"A contract for what?" Iorveth ignored his question, making no move to remove himself from the relative safety of his tree. Geralt rolled his eyes which made Iorveth scowl, though Geralt likely couldn't see.

"A group of soldiers went missing last night. I'm supposed to find out what happened." He glanced at the corpses surrounding him; some riddled with arrows, others with slit throats and clean, precise cuts. "I think I just found out."

Iorveth narrowed his eye and gripped his sword tighter, defensively, instinctively. "And I suppose you're to bring back the head of the beast that slaughtered them?"

Geralt shrugged. "I guess, but they seemed convinced that the soldiers were alive, just drunk somewhere. But they'd probably pay a good amount for the head of the beast, yeah."

"If you think you can kill me, you're dead wrong, _dh'oine_." A lie. 

"What makes you think I'd try that? And I'm not human."

Iorveth blinked once, momentarily silenced by the response. But only momentarily. "Because you're a witcher, and witcher's carry out contracts. Witcher's get paid. And you know exactly what I meant."

"I'm not a hired thug, Iorveth. I'm not just gonna go around slaughtering old friends because a few racist shits asked me to find their drunk soldiers."

Old friends. Iorveth couldn't help but feel a rush of relief, though he didn't let it show. He felt the white-knuckled grip he had on his sword loosen slightly. Perhaps it was a mistake, his downfall; perhaps it wasn't. "So what, then?"

He could see Geralt studying him, his yellow eyes scanning his broken body. Iorveth suddenly felt slightly self-conscious, completely exposed to the witcher below him. He knew that the dim light of the forest mattered little to him. Iorveth squinted.

"Are you just going to ogle me like a schoolboy?"

Geralt snorted. "You don't look so good. Come here."

Iorveth didn't move.

"Please?"

His body betrayed him as his heart skipped a beat. He scowled to cover it, and to cover his surprise at his own reaction. Here he was, stuck in a tree, and Geralt was begging him to come down. Scowl only deepening, he slowly stood as straight as his bruised body would let him. He carefully jumped down from the tree, in front of Geralt, landing on his feet and doubling over in pain. Geralt was at his side immediately. Iorveth's head snapped up to look at him.

"You okay?" Geralt asked. 

"Fine," Iorveth replied through gritted teeth, standing up with some difficulty. When he almost toppled over, Geralt caught him, grabbing his good arm — which was still equipped with his sword — and wrapping it around his shoulders for support. Iorveth stared at him. 

"What are you doing?" Iorveth asked after a moment.

"What's it look like?" Geralt grunted. "Helping you get out of here. Where are your things? Do you need to grab anything before we go?"

"Go?" Iorveth pulled away from Geralt, almost falling over again but catching himself on a nearby tree. He stared at Geralt, venom in his eyes. "Where are you taking me?"

"Relax," Geralt's voice harbored none of the venom that Iorveth's did. More frustration than anything. "You're obviously weak, look at you. I couldn't give two shits about those soldiers. Obviously I care more about the health of a friend. Do you have everything?"

Iorveth was silent for a moment. A long, uncomfortable moment, staring at Geralt and trying to discern whether or not he was serious. Did Iorveth really have any reason to doubt his intentions? Had Geralt done anything to betray Iorveth's trust? No, not really. In fact, Geralt has done more to help Iorveth than he has to slow him down. And he knew the witcher had no problem turning down contracts he didn't want to do. He bit his cheek.

"My bag is somewhere over there," Iorveth nodded his head in the general direction. "I'm not sure where, exactly. I got a bit distracted, as you can see."

Geralt immediately set to work searching the area, and in a matter of seconds he located the bag. Damn witcher senses. Geralt was at his side once again.

"Now let me help you," Geralt insisted. "It'd be easier if you put your sword away."

"No."

"Fine."

Geralt eased Iorveth's arm over his shoulders again and this time Iorveth complied. He hissed at a sudden pain in his side. He must have broken a rib or two, damn it all.

"You okay?"

" _Bloede dh'oine_ ," Iorveth spat. "Let's go. I despise this place."

\---

"What is this?"

Iorveth was wrapped in a blanket, sitting cross-legged on a bed in the Chameleon. Clutched in his hand was a mug filled with a warm, mystery substance that Geralt instructed him to drink. They had just arrived from the forest in Velen, Iorveth riding Roach as Geralt led them along the murky pathways. Geralt made sure to take the less populated routes and Iorveth had been wearing a makeshift cloak to hide his likeness from those around him, lest he be recognized as a viscous, nonhuman Scoia'tael leader in Novigrad. Dandelion was kind enough to lend them a room in his tavern (not that Geralt would let him say no).

"A healing mixture. Made from a bunch of different herbs," Geralt replied, almost absentmindedly. He was sitting in a wooden chair beside the bed, staring at Iorveth shamelessly, much to Iorveth's displeasure. Iorveth grunted in response but took small sips nonetheless.

They sat in silence for a while. Geralt didn't take his eyes of Iorveth. His gaze was penetrating, calculating, as if there were a million thoughts buzzing in his head. Iorveth shot glances back at Geralt every so often, and every time he looked he was met with Geralt's stare. He wasn't staring in his eye, no, but nearly everywhere else.

"What are you staring at?" Iorveth finally snapped, though his voice didn't carry all that much heat. Geralt finally made eye contact.

"You," he murmured matter-of-factly. "You look... like shit."

Iorveth snorted and rolled his eye, shifting to reposition his legs. He winced in pain, but only for a second. "Likewise, thank you."

Geralt flashed a smile and leaned back in the chair. "So, what are you doing in Velen?"

Iorveth swirled his drink in his hand, shifting his gaze to stare at the contents. "There's a plague spreading," He replied. "Some of the Scoia'tael were infected, many died gruesome and needless deaths. I came to look for a cure. No luck yet, I'm afraid."

"Where's the rest of your unit?"

"The ones who were with me during the attack are either dead or back in a cave we've been using for a few days, most likely. If they aren't there then they might be looking for me. None escaped unscathed as far as I know, so I don't know how soon they'll be able to search and be confident in their abilities. They wouldn't go on a suicide mission and I wouldn't want them to."

"And you don't want to, I don't know, check up them?"

"Of course I do," Iorveth hissed, looking up at Geralt who was raising his hands in surrender. Iorveth let out a frustrated sigh. "Of course I do. Don't take me for heartless bastard, _Gwynbleidd_ , like everyone else tends to. But at the moment I'm in worse shape than any of them must be in, considering they escaped, so if I can heal before I go back it would be ideal."

Geralt nodded in understanding. He looked at Iorveth's broken arm and stood up. "That arm looks bad. We should get it taken care of."

"Ah, yes, it's a good thing Geralt the medic is here to nurse me back to health," Iorveth took a large sip of his drink, downing the rest of it and setting the now empty cup on the nightstand. He felt the warmth radiating through his body and felt the healing properties slowly taking effect. He shivered in content at the sensation. 

"I'm the best you got," Geralt smirked as he rummaged through his pouch. "I don't have much, but at least I have some proper bandages. And no tree branches." From his pouch he pulled out a bundle of folded bandages. Nothing special, but better than a bandanna and a stick.

Iorveth didn't reply and instead set to untying his poorly-knotted bandanna. Geralt sat beside Iorveth on the bed, grabbing the bandanna and tree branch and setting them aside. He then gently took Iorveth's arm in his lap, unraveling the bandages in his hand. He retrieved a nearby cloth submerged in water that Dandelion had lent him, wringing out the excess water and softly wiping away the dirt and grime of Iorveth's injury.

Iorveth felt strangely uncomfortable. Maybe not uncomfortable, but instead... awkward. A strange sensation for Iorveth to feel — this was merely business, a matter of health, yet he couldn't help but feel like there was something more. Geralt's gentle touches, his looks of genuine concern, the way he bit his cheek in intense focus as to cause Iorveth as little pain as possible. He stared at Geralt as he worked, unable to look away from his striking, focused golden eyes.

Geralt briefly glanced up at Iorveth, who immediately looked away and scowled weakly. He felt his face heat up at being caught staring so intensely at the witcher and he hated feeling so vulnerable. At the same time, however, it felt normal. As though he could allow the witcher to see him in the weakest states and be fine with it. He couldn't discern why.

"I'm gonna wrap your arm up now."

"Just do it," Iorveth tried to sound venomous, though he wasn't sure if it worked. His voice certainly sounded much weaker than he would have hoped. He had no idea what was wrong with him. He closed his eye tightly.

"Does it hurt?" The witcher paused his work as he noticed Iorveth's contorted face. Iorveth's eye did not open for fear of what affect the look of concern Geralt was clearly wearing would have on him, but he did grit his teeth together in frustration.

"No, now hurry up, _vatt'ghern_." The way he said the word made it sound like a curse.

Geralt was silent.

It felt like an eternity before Geralt was finally finished. He carefully moved Iorveth's newly cleaned and bandaged arm from his lap and stood up, taking the dirty wet cloth with him and returning it to the water basin. Geralt looked at Iorveth, who was staring at the wall.

Geralt cleared his throat. "Need anything else?"

"No, leave me."

"Are you su-"

"I said _leave_ ," Iorveth spat, looking Geralt in the eyes and scowling. Geralt didn't flinch, didn't move an inch. For a moment Iorveth was worried his intimidation was not working and he looked foolish. But finally, Geralt turned around and headed for the door.

"If you say so."

And he left.

Iorveth immediately felt empty. The room felt empty. He suddenly felt uncharacteristically alone.

He wasn't used to this feeling. He hated it. And he had no idea where this came from.

His first thought was the drink Geralt had given him. Was it some kind of potion? Making him react to the smallest things? Some type of mild aphrodisiac?

But no, Iorveth knew very well that's not what it was. He knew Geralt would never do that to him, and Iorveth could recognize the taste of the herbs in the brew. Iorveth knew this was his own mind betraying him, and it wasn't the first time.

In truth, ever since Iorveth's time with Geralt in Vergen, with Geralt's eagerness to help him and Saskia, he's felt things he never wanted to admit to himself. He had come to respect the witcher, and that alone was a fact that took him months to grasp. Geralt wasn't like the other humans, and he was a human, no matter how much he liked to deny it. He was tall, had rounded ears, couldn't transform into other beings, and he had emotions. Real, genuine emotions. That was human enough. And Iorveth found that he didn't mind that one bit.

What he did mind was the feelings he had seemingly developed. After their paths diverged in Loc Muinne it was easy enough to ignore and deny. Without Geralt there to remind him he could easily focus his mind on other things, forgetting about the witcher in most cases. Though after everything Geralt did for him it was impossible to erase him from his mind completely. This hadn't been much of a problem, but now Geralt was here. And now it was a problem.

Iorveth slowly shuffled to lay down in the bed, letting his head sink into the soft pillows, grunting softly at a dull ache in his side. He stared at the ceiling, trying and failing to not let his thoughts consume him. He had been having these feelings for a while, sure, but it's never been this uncontrollable. His body and intuition had never betrayed him as they were now. Perhaps it was the feeling of being cared for, looked after, having someone to feel concern for him. He rarely ever had that outside of his unit.

Iorveth grimaced to himself. What a horrible thought.

He tried to fall asleep. He tried his damnedest. He wasn't able to move much, his bruised body protesting with nearly every breath already, so he was stuck staring at the dull ceiling in his moments of sleeplessness. He was sure he had committed every nook and cranny to memory. He was exhausted, there was no denying it, and yet he still could not will his mind to shut down. Did he feel unsafe? No. Besides, he had fallen asleep in a tree after an ambush mere hours ago. Feeling unsafe wasn't exactly a detriment to his sleep anymore.

Iorveth knew very well why he couldn't sleep, but he wasn't about to admit it. Even after all the thoughts that were running through his mind, he still did not dare to admit it.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he heard the door slowly creak open. Instinct forced Iorveth to sit up and reach for a weapon that wasn't actually there, and the sudden movement caused pain to shoot throughout his entire body. He flinched violently, falling back into the pillows.

"Oops, sorry." Geralt. Of course it was him, that's exactly what Iorveth needed.

"What do you want?"

The witcher slowly entered the room, and a quick glance in his direction revealed the food tray he was carrying. Iorveth squinted.

"I thought you'd be hungry, so I brought some food." Geralt grabbed the backrest of the wooden chair and moved it directly beside the bed. He set the tray down on it. The tray was filled with common fruits and nuts; nothing special, but food nonetheless. Iorveth hadn't eaten in... a long time.

"Thank you," he responded hesitantly. Iorveth didn't move, and neither did Geralt. Iorveth looked at Geralt, who was staring at him with an expression that he couldn't read. Iorveth felt heat rise to his face but he refused to show weakness by looking away. Instead his eye narrowed in focus and he tried to will his body to calm down. "What? What are you looking at?"

The witcher blinked as if he had just been shaken out of a trance. His eyes focused more clearly. 

"You can go now," Iorveth urged. But Geralt did not go. Instead, Geralt sat on the edge of the bed, facing Iorveth and making direct eye contact. Iorveth, for once in his life, didn't know how to respond. One part of him wanted to shout, push him off the bed, demand to be left alone. The other part wanted to grab Geralt, tell him to stay, just for this night, feeling safer with him there in his weakened state in unfamiliar territory. He was used to feeling unsafe, but he didn't _like_ feeling unsafe. However, he did neither. He just stared.

"You haven't changed a bit," Geralt murmured, breaking the silence. Iorveth squinted.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shot back. Geralt snorted, amused.

"Just like in Vergen," The witcher explained. "I can tell when you're thinking hard about something. I can tell when you're anxious. Like when we were on our way to Loc Muinne, you always had that expression. Or when you were deciding what you wanted to do with Phillipa in the sewers, or when we had that first meeting with Saskia."

"I get it," Iorveth spat hotly. "What's your point?"

Geralt paused as if choosing his next words carefully, lest the elf break his nose. "You know, you looked at Saskia this same way."

If looks could kill, Geralt would be a dead man. But he would be a dead man with a nose that wasn't broken, which was a good sign.

There was a long, deafening silence. Iorveth was red in the face, fuming, his face flashing with a multitude of different emotions that were going by too fast for Geralt to distinguish. Geralt did not falter, did not show signs of embarrassment or fear. The air around them was thick and tense, waiting for someone to break the silence. It was a long while before someone did.

"I'll leave now," The witcher finally said, standing up from his seat on the bed. Iorveth immediately grabbed Geralt's arm with an iron grip. Geralt looked at him in surprise, and he was met with a dark gaze.

"Don't you dare, _Gwynbleidd_. Don't you dare leave."

The next few moments were a blur, and nobody was quite sure how it happened, but Geralt was sitting back on the bed beside Iorveth and their lips were locked together and it felt _right_. It felt as if all of the tension that had been building up for the past few hours, all of the tension from their months in Vergen and Loc Muinne, all of the unspoken feelings had finally broken the dam and spilled out into the open. There were no more secrets, no more doubts, this was what they had both been wanting and now they both knew it. The kiss was heated and desperate, Iorveth was tightly clinging to Geralt's hair with his one good arm as if Geralt would simply vaporize if he let go. Geralt's right arm was placed beside Iorveth's head while his left was grasping Iorveth's cheek, his thumb gently and absentmindedly running over the ugly scar. Geralt shifted his body more towards Iorveth, leaning in closer, so close that Iorveth could feel his heat beat against his chest. The elf pressed up towards the witcher as much as his broken body would let him. It felt like an eternity had gone by before they finally had to separate, panting heavily and staring at each other, foreheads pressed together.

It was silent for a long while with nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the room. Iorveth's eye was darting across Geralt's face, taking in every feature he could from this close, as if committing it to memory. He looked almost afraid, worried. The grip in Geralt's hair tightened.

"Why?" Iorveth whispered, his voice strained. "Why are you doing this?"

Geralt's expression didn't change.

"Why not?"

Iorveth tried to scowl but there was no heat in his stare. He looked exhausted. "Because we shouldn't be here. I'm the leader of a powerful Scoia'tael unit, I'm always on the move, planning attacks and fighting plagues. And you're a _vatt'ghern_ , a witcher, a mutant, paid to hunt monsters and never in the same spot for more than a week. So why?"

Geralt pulled away, just slightly, yet he felt the fingers in his hair coil even tighter before loosening to a grip that was hardly there at all. He looked at Iorveth seriously, intensely. Iorveth felt a chill run through his spine.

"We'll work it out."

Iorveth let out a noise that was a mix between a laugh and a groan of frustration. He looked at the ceiling, letting the hand in Geralt's hair drop limply to his side. "Surely you jest. You cannot be serious."

Geralt's left hand was still at Iorveth's cheek, and he brought his right hand to grip the other side. His grip was firm but gentle and was enough to get Iorveth to look at him again. His thumb continued to absentmindedly brush against the scar there. It felt strangely intimate and Iorveth was surprised at himself for letting it happen.

"We're not going to see each other very often," Geralt spoke matter-of-factly. "It's not in either of our natures. Our paths and our goals don't align. I couldn't care less about the war between the Scoia'tael and humans, and you couldn't care less about monsters. But do you know what I do care about? Your safety, your well-being. I care about you, Iorveth, and I know you care about me, too, despite your denying it. And that's why I know we'll see each other again. That's why I'm not gonna hold back just because we're about to split up again, just because you think it's pointless."

Iorveth was quiet. He was hardly breathing. His heart was pounding in his ears and he was certain that Geralt could hear it, feel it. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so torn, so full of longing and an unexplained sense of despair. Everything in his mind was telling him to shove the witcher away, scream at him and tell him to get lost. It would be the best, it would end things and Iorveth would never have to think about him ever again.

But of course, that's not what he did. Instead, he grabbed the front of Geralt's shirt and pulled him into another kiss, just as desperate as the first. In truth, Iorveth didn't want to go back to the forests. He didn't want to live in damp caves, treading through murky swamps, feeling clean once every few months, constantly fighting for survival. He wanted to relax, settle down, know he and his unit were safe at all times. But he couldn't do that, not yet. His job wasn't done. He had a duty he had to fulfill, a duty he owed to nonhumans. He couldn't shirk that responsibility. He pulled away, pushing lightly on Geralt's chest.

It was as if Geralt could read his mind. "I saw your dream, you know."

Iorveth immediately felt a flash of anxiety. Why? He didn't know. "What are you talking about?"

"In Vergen, while I was looking for the dragon's dream. I saw your dream." Geralt flashed a smile. "I'd like that, too."

And with that, Geralt stood up. Iorveth let him. The witcher made his way to the door and looked back at the elf, lying dazed and confused in the bed.

"See you in the morning."

He left.

And Iorveth would see him in the morning.


End file.
